


The Ghosts of Ghastly Attire Past

by notjustmom



Series: Christmas 2018 [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas fic, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-01 09:06:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16762141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: It's the time of year Sherlock dreads... not necessarily Christmas itself, but the Christmas apparel that accompanies it.





	1. Prologue

They had been what most people would consider 'together' for the last twelve Christmases, though for obvious reasons, they had decided never to marry. There had been an exchanging of rings, in private; a symbol of belonging, a claiming of a sort, he supposed, as he glanced down at his own ring, which only left his finger for the occasional cleaning, then sighed as he looked at the calendar and flipped from November to December, wondering what sartorial disasters awaited him over the next few weeks.

It had started as a joke. Or at least he thought it had been a joke, on their first Christmas after... well, after everything that had come before, and they had finally settled into what they had become.

"Ah, first day of December, and it's already snowing. If you are heading out, make sure you bundle up warmly." John kissed his cheek, then yawned and wandered into the kitchen for tea.


	2. Socks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Socks...

From as far back as he could remember, socks were, well, important. He wasn’t completely sure why, but it probably started because from the time he gave thought to his feet, more precisely his toes, he thought they were too long, and just too odd looking. Not that he had many toes to compare them to as a child of five, but somehow he knew his were odder than most, so he found comfort in socks. Socks didn’t look at him strangely, or - 

“Yeah, right.” He watched as John turned to lean against the kitchen counter, and blew on his tea to cool it down as was his habit, then he raised his eyes just enough to catch Sherlock observing him and offered him a smile. There was no longer a question in it, as there had been that first Christmas, that first year when they were finally able to -

“I just need to -” the words stopped, and Sherlock found himself taking John’s tea out of his hands, then kissing him softly, but protectively, possessively, even, even though he knew, had known for years now, that there would never be anyone else kissing the man who grinned against his lips, not if he had anything to say about it. He nodded sharply, then put John’s tea back into his hands, pressed a last kiss to his forehead, then strode to the door, tied his scarf as he always did, and drew his gloves on. “Love you.” 

“Love you.”

“Back soon.”

“I know.”

Right. Socks. From the time he had taken up residence in that hellhole known as a boarding school from the age of eleven, his one comfort had been his collection of socks. He had his row of standard ‘appropriate’ school socks, all in black, he could have navy, but he had chosen the deepest, darkest black he could find. Until it was time to buy school clothes, he had no idea how many shades of black there were. He had thought black was black.

Why was he thinking about socks, black socks in particular? December first. Right. What was it about December? He glanced up to see a workman hang a wreath on a lamp post and he blew out a disgruntled sigh. Then he found himself recalling that first day of December, ten - no, twelve, twelve? Twelve Decembers ago, now. 

John had made tea and placed it on the bedside table with a note.

Love you. Back soon. - J

Sherlock sighed and sipped at his tea, once again wondering that John knew exactly how to add the sugar as he preferred it. He rolled his eyes at the ceiling, then picked up the note and smiled as he traced the nearly illegible scrawl, as if John had no choice but to be anything but the doctor he was. He still worked the odd shift at the surgery, to keep his name on the registry, just in case… In case… Sherlock let his mind wander just enough as he finished his tea, then slowly rolled himself out of bed, used the loo, showered, and reached down to retrieve a pair of socks from the sock drawer, not bothering to look, as he always knew precisely where each pair was located, until - “what the -” he looked at the pair of socks in his hand and wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry or to call Lestrade to report a break-in at Baker Street. The neon green and burgundy striped socks in his hand weren’t just atrocious due to their colour and polyesterish scratchiness, they were adorned with blinking lights and bells that tinkled as his hand trembled… John. Or Mrs. Hudson? No. She wouldn’t, but John… yes, John would. A joke. It was a joke. This is what couples did, yes? 

Sherlock snorted at the memory of those socks, put away in a box, never spoken of, definitely never worn, though John had known, of course he had known that Sherlock had seen them, and he knew exactly what he had thought of them without a word of conversation between them. 

He stopped walking and turned towards the window of John’s favorite bakery. He hadn’t left the flat with a reason in mind, just needed to walk, but as always, his thoughts, no - what led him back to John was never thought, never anything as substantial as a thought, but what most people would consider instinct, Sherlock considered it to be -

“Morning, Sherlock.”

He nodded as the owner handed him a bag of fresh scones, cranberry-orange, this morning, so it was a Tuesday, then kissed his cheek and sent him on his way back to Baker Street. Always cranberry-orange on Tuesdays, some things never changed. He shook his head, things always changed over time. Time. He looked up at the crooked knocker on his door and sighed, then pushed the door open and quickly flew up the seventeen steps, needing to be near him suddenly, as if -

“Hey.”

“John.”

“Scones.”

“Uhmhmm.”

John smiled at him then gently untied his scarf, and draped it over its proper hook, then helped him out of his coat, and led him silently to the couch, and helped him to sit down. There were moments when Sherlock wondered if anyone had ever loved anyone the way he loved John, and long ago he had decided the answer was an emphatic no. Today, as John pressed a small piece of scone between his lips, and watched him chew it carefully, Sherlock was reminded again that John loved him in a way that even he still couldn’t completely comprehend, even now. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to.


	3. Hats and other atrocities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> antlers...

He wasn’t sure when his loathing for hats started, it was entirely possible it began with the accidental introduction of the ‘death frisbee’ into his life, which he eventually acknowledged he had brought entirely onto himself, but he couldn’t honestly recall wearing hats, not even as a child, even in the winter months. Perhaps it was his vanity. He couldn’t stand for his curls to be matted down, and to this day, he simply couldn’t abide anything in his hair, unless it was John’s fingers… he glanced down at John sleeping peacefully against him, and suddenly recalled their second Christmas, and the... antlers. He closed his eyes and tried to blink away the memory, but to no avail.

“What are you wearing, John?”

“Hmmm?”

“On your head. You seem to have grown -” Sherlock’s relationship with language suddenly came to a brief and complete halt as he aimed a trembling finger towards John’s head.

“Oh. These?” John grinned as he reached up to pull the reindeer antlers from his head and patted his hair back into place. “For the kids, at the surgery, I always wear something silly -” He began walking towards Sherlock and to his chagrin, Sherlock found himself frozen to the spot. The reflexes that had managed to keep him alive this long were failing him, and he shuddered as John slid the headband into his curls, then blinked as a camera went off.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

“Sorry, dear.” 

He couldn’t help but snort at the memory now, years later. John shifted in his arms for a moment, but sighed contentedly and resettled against him as Sherlock kissed his forehead and murmured into his ear, “I’m here, John. I’m here.”


	4. Scarf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third of December...

Sherlock checked his phone and realised it was the third of December already, and there wasn't a single sign of the approach of the silly season to be found in the flat. Usually by now, John had dragged out the old fake tree and the boxes of lights, the bits and bows from 221C and beginning his attack on his waistline by baking dozen of his favorite gingerbread biscuits; perhaps John had finally tired of dragging, pushing and pulling him into the spirit of the holidays. 

No... John loved Christmas, it was by far his favourite time of the year, he loved all of the garishness of it all, he loved grabbing a cab after work and driving through the more residential neighborhoods to see all the blinking, coloured lights, each house more done up than the next, as if there was a competition for highest electrics bill...

Perhaps there was something he wasn't telling him? Damn it. He had been quieter recently, by now he was humming carols, and grinning like the Cheshire Cat, this year - he walked over to the window and spotted John getting out of a cab and attempted to study him. He didn't seem any different at first glance, a bit older around the edges, maybe? He had just bought reading glasses, it was possible he was feeling his age? What could he do? He had tried baking once, and the smoke alarms and Mrs. Hudson let him know it wasn't something he should ever attempt again, so making John biscuits was out of the question. He could get the decorations out and try his hand at making merry and bright - but he knew it was something if it wasn't done in the right spirit - damn, that word again. He needed to find a way to help John find his joy this year... oh. Wait. Yes...

He strode over to the coat rack, pulled on his coat, then reached for his scarf and found it had been replaced by - oh, John. He snorted as his old blue scarf had become a mishmash of kitsch, reindeer and candy canes and snowflakes - utter nonsense, but he found himself grinning as he tied it on, then opened the door before John could fit his key in, and pulled him into a mind-bending kiss.

"Don't take off your coat -"

"Wha - hmmm, Sherlock, I've had a shite day and - oh, you found it."

"Yes, obviously." He took John's bag from his hand, and tossed it on the couch, then turned him back towards the stairs. "We're going to go find a tree."

"A tree? A real, live tree?" John blinked at him, and tried to figure out which Christmas ghost was currently inhabiting at least Sherlock's brain, if not his body.

"Well, once they cut it down, it's technically dead, but, yes, we are going to find a real tree, one that smells like a tree, hopefully, and then we are going to get out the boxes from downstairs - what?"

John shook his head and placed a still gloved hand on his cheek, as he searched his eyes. "Who are you and what did you do with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Come on, now, we'll get dinner after - please, John?"

"Now, I really -" John studied the man he thought he had known for the last - how long had it been now? He had lost track, somehow. He shrugged, and nodded, then took Sherlock by the hand, and led him down the stairs and onto Baker Street.


	5. Christmas Tree/matching pajamas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit from John's POV...

John couldn't help but hum along with the canned musak carols as they searched for their tree. He knew it annoyed Sherlock - how he loved Christmas, but here they were, after all these years in a tree lot, trying to find the 'perfect' tree. He knew there was no such thing, trees were like - well, like people. There was always the odd branch that stuck out crooked, or it was too fluffy, or too skinny...

"John! I found it! This one!" Sherlock bellowed a couple of rows away, and John followed the grumbling he could hear until he was standing in front of the most perfect Christmas tree he had ever seen.

"John? Is it okay? If it's not, we'll just go find another lot and -" 

"It's perfect, Sherlock. It's the most perfect tree I've ever seen."

"Yeah?" Sherlock glanced nervously at the tree he was holding up, then back at John. "I mean, it's a little short... we could look for a taller one."

John shook his head and whispered, "no. It's beautiful, just like you."

"John..."

"Sorry. Sometimes I wonder if you know, how much..."

Sherlock nodded at him, then used his free hand to pull John close enough to kiss him once, sweetly, telling him all he needed to know, then drew back and yelled out to the tree guy, "we'll take this one!" He turned his sparkling eyes back on John and smiled broadly at him. "Yes, John, I do know, I know."

They carried the twine wrapped tree back to the flat and up the stairs, then propped it up against the window. "We do have a tree stand, don't we?" 

John snorted and nodded. "There is one downstairs. It's ancient, but I think we can make it work." He looked up at Sherlock and suddenly remembered the year Mrs. Holmes had bought them matching pajamas, and started laughing. "Do you remember the year -"

"The matching stripped pajamas..."

"With the feet."

"At least they were warm... and were easy to get out of..." Sherlock whispered as he drew John close to him once more and held him tightly.

"What do you say we get the tree up, make sure it has enough water... then see if we can find them..."

"Or..."

"Not."


End file.
